


The Flatmate

by shadenc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadenc/pseuds/shadenc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson's flatmate has been dead for six months, and he is determined to move on. However, things get difficult when said flatmate's brother receives texts supposedly from the dead individual- and is horrified at what he finds. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dr. John Watson sat down rather awkwardly, grimacing slightly as he stretched his aching leg in front of him, leaning his cane against the side of the park bench. As he did so, something niggled in the back of his head, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. Realization hit. This was the same bench that he had sat upon with Mike Stamford an eternity ago, drinking coffee, in search of a flatmate. He remembered what he had said to Mike.

_"Who would want me for a flatmate?"_

But as he sat upon that bench alone, he knew who wanted him as a flatmate. _Who_ had _wanted him as a flatmate_ , he corrected himself. John still lived in the flat, though it was eerily quiet, clean, still.

Safe.

_Dull_.

He briefly considered moving to a different bench, but dismissed the thought as childish- the memories would continue to follow him. Besides, it would be silly to aggravate his leg. He thought of the one who had temporarily cured this damn leg, and smiled quietly to himself as he remembered that night, dashing through London, the first of many.

A small girl in a bright pink cardigan rushed by, as her mother tried in vain to keep up.

"Rachel! Honey, wait by that corner! Do not step into the street without me, do you understand?"

Rachel.

Why was that name so familiar?

Oh.

Their very first case, the scratches in the floor, the daughter,  _"Not good?"_

The password, the tracking device, which building?

The cabbie, the pills.

The shot.

John sighed. Was this how his life would be from now on? It had been six months. Time to move on. It was ridiculous for a common name to send him into such a dark mood. But it seemed like everything, from the girl to a bench to his own leg, was a reminder.

* * *

Lost in his thoughts, John hardly noticed the tall, immaculately dressed man sit down next to him on the bench. With a start, John realizes the man is staring at him. He turns to look at the man, and his eyes widen.

"Dr. Watson."

"Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft sighs, but says nothing else.

After several minutes, John clears his throat. "I'm guessing your day does not normally consist of walks in the park?"

"You're right."

They sit in silence once more. John shifts awkwardly in the bench next to the most powerful man he knows. He has not seen Mycroft since the funeral, and cannot fathom what this man would possibly want with him. After all, now he wasn't anything special. Just a doctor with a limp. Hell, he didn't even run a blog anymore.

Again, John breaks the silence. "So, what is this then? A new exercise regimen?"

Mycroft smiles dryly. "I see you've adopted my brother's pathetic attempt at humor."

John laughs humorlessly. "Are you going to tell me what you are doing here or do you expect me to guess? Because I haven't the slightest idea."

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft pulls out his phone, presses several buttons, and hands it to John. "I received this text message a week ago."

_I need your help._

_SH_

John hears a roaring in his ears, and then feels hot anger.

"Is this someone's idea of a joke?"

"I thought the same, Dr. Watson, especially given the... nature of the message. I'm sure you would agree that it is unlike my brother to ask for help or any sort- particularly from myself. Naturally, I had the text tracked. However, this proved to be unnecessary, as another text came a short while later with coordinates."

"Alright, sounds like a feeble attempt to lure a powerful government official into a trap."

"It does indeed, but if that were the case, why would I be speaking with you?"

"Continue."

"I received a third and final text several minutes later," Mycroft hands the phone to John once again.

_Please._

_SH_

John reads the text, and then slaps it back into Mycroft's waiting hand. Mycroft waits for John to say something, but John is silent, staring at the ground with murderous eyes.

"For the love of God, explain  _why you are here_."

"I had several of my men visit the coordinates, all of us assuming it would be a trap. Once they arrived, they were supposed to inform me of what they found. I was not going to be generous with the  _individual_  who would use my brother's name as a  _hoax_."

John smiled grimly at the rare showing of emotion, and waited for Mycroft to continue.

"This is what I received from one of my agents," handing John his phone for the final time.

The grainy image depicted several men, all armed with first aid supplies, huddled around a thin figure. Though the details were hard to make out, John was able to make out a mop of dark curls on the figure's head.

His heart began to pound so loudly that it drowned out everything else.

"Is this-"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"John, this  _is_  my brother we are talking about."

"He's dead."

"Apparently not."

"That's impossible. I  _saw him die_ , Mycroft."

"I can assure you that he is alive, though not well."

"I'm assuming it is no use asking how he...wait...Mycroft, how long ago did you find out he was alive?"

"Only five days ago, John."

"Well then, why did you wait five bloody days to tell me?"

"He is a fragile state of recovery, and we were concerned as to what your reaction to him being alive might be."

"Glad to know you have that much faith in me. So why did you decide to let me know that my flatmate is alive?"

"He asked for you."

"...he what?"

"He asked to see you."

John hastily rose to his feet.

"Mycroft, take me to him  _now_."

"Of course, Dr. Watson."

As the pair quickly strode off toward the ominous black car Mycroft had presumably arrived in, John's cane was forgotten by the park bench.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft could not say that he had been particularly shocked to find that his brother was alive. He had already suspected that Sherlock had motivation to fake his death for several reasons, most having to due with a certain James Moriarty- though he had dismissed these suspicions as false hope several months ago. Still, the man had survived two drug overdoses and multiple close-misses with London's criminals- how could a simple building defeat him?

But though the building had not defeated him, something had- or nearly had. Something had left his little brother broken, physically and otherwise. But Sherlock has not said a word about it. Actually, he has not said much of anything since they found him broken in that abandoned building.

As Mycroft tells all of this to him, John keeps his carefully emotionless stare fixed on the car floor.

"Mycroft, when you said he's asking for me..."

"He has hardly said anything since we found him, certainly not anything coherent. However, your name is mentioned the most by far, and we are hoping that somehow you will be able to help him."

"How?"

"To be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure. But I am confident that your presence will help him somehow."

After this frustratingly cryptic reply, Mycroft is silent the rest of the way to the private hospital. They exit the car, and John follows Mycroft with one thought in his head.

_He's alive._

* * *

After winding through the maze of a hospital, Mycroft finally stops, and the two men enter the room.

For such a tall man, Sherlock shouldn't look so small.

His eyes are closed- sleeping, but judging by the pained expression on his face, not peacefully. He is curled up into himself, and whimpers quietly.

Heart clenching, John is immediately at his side. Hoping to wake Sherlock from the nightmare he is obviously being tortured by, he places a tentative hand on his shoulder. At the touch, Sherlock violently flinches without waking, and John draws back his hand.

Reluctantly allowing the man to continue sleeping, John turns to Mycroft.

"What the hell happened to him?"

"We don't know. As I said, he is hardly speaking."

John collapses into the chair by Sherlock's bed, his head in his hands. "I suppose it is no use asking who?"

Mycroft shakes his head solemnly, and then looks at his outrageously expensive watch.

"I apologize for my rudeness Dr. Watson, but I must be leaving, as I do have a very important meeting to attend. I am sure that I will see you shortly."

And with that, the most powerful man John knows is gone.

As John looks at the sleeping form of his friend that he had believed to be dead for the past six months, he laughs humorlessly at the fact that a mere two hours ago, none of this was happening. He had been going about life as he had been for the past six months. Then chaos had returned.

And he was damned glad it had.

* * *

As he waited for Sherlock to wake up, John read the chart from the clipboard at the end of his bed. It appeared as if the man had been starved, though he had hardly needed the medical chart for that- the detective's bones were clearly even more prominent than usual. Even as John swallowed back murderous rage at whoever had dared do this to Sherlock, he was grateful that the physical damage hadn't been worse. However, as he remembered the pitiful way the man had been curled on the bed, John realized that the mysterious emotional damage was going to take far more recovery.

A sharp intake of breath has John looking up from the clipboard, straight into a pair of wide, pale eyes.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't respond, and only blinked.

"...Sherlock?"

Nothing.

John began to panic at the sight of the once-eloquent man now seemingly unable say a word.

"Sherlock,  _please_ , say something..."

_"John?"_

It was so quiet, so soft, that John almost missed it.

But before John could answer him, the detective again curled in on himself, buried his face in his pillow, and began to weep.

"Sherlock!" John was kneeling on the floor beside the bed in an instant. From a man who was loathe to admit he  _had_  emotions, this was frighteningly out of character, and John hadn't the slightest idea what to do.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was my fault, I'm sorry..." Sherlock mumbled again and again as his body was wracked with sobs.

"What was? What was your fault?"

"I'm sorry, forgive me, I'm so sorry..."

"Sherlock?"

"Please, I'm sorry..."

Not knowing what else to do, John placed a hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder. This time, the man didn't flinch away.

"It's okay, it's all okay. It's all fine."

Either his words had worked, or Sherlock's tears had run out. Regardless, Sherlock lifted his face from the pillow, and looked straight at John with his red-rimmed eyes. He wore an expression of utter despair.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"...my fault."

"What was, Sherlock? Explain to me, I'm an idiot, you know that, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm so sorry, it's all my fault..."

John sighed. He wondered if the man could even hear him. He couldn't stand seeing Sherlock so obviously distraught, and not being able to do a thing about it. Not knowing what to do, he sat back down in the chair, and let his head fall into his hands.

"It's my fault, John, I  _killed_  you."

John's head snapped up.

_"What?"_


	3. Chapter 3

He remembers everything.

 

He remembers standing on the rooftop at St. Bart’s, the three gunmen, and a brilliant plan so clever only he could have devised it.

And the phonecall. That last call with the only one he could truly call a friend. He had known it would be hard. Sentiment. Unavoidable.

But he couldn’t have prepared himself for that despair in John’s voice that had been haunting him for six months.

Of course, he had to follow through with his plan. It was either John’s heart or John’s life.

And so he fell.

 

He remembers afterwards. Molly silently cleaned the fake blood from his face.

She cried. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

Molly offered to let him stay the night, but he refuses-- he must start right away.

 

The next few months were blur of crowded plane flights and unfamiliar streets. He longs for the familiarity of London, of his home. Of John.

He kills. Of course he does. But he cannot shake the ridiculous feeling that this is not his role. He is supposed to be the brain. John is the crack shot.

He cannot attempt to be both, it is too much. He _needs_ an assistant. _His_ assistant. His blogger. His John.

 

And then he had finally gotten to the last member of the operation Moriarty had left behind-- Sebastian Moran. The last one. After this final kill, he could return to his John.

As he silently entered the abandoned house where Moran was supposedly hiding, the lights flipped on in a blinding flash.

And before his eyes could adjust to the burning brightness, an all-too-familiar voice from the center of the room.

“Miss me sexy?”

* * *

"It's my fault, John, I _killed_ you."

John's head snapped up.

 _"What?"_ John’s eyes squinted in confusion. “Sherlock, I’m alive. I am undoubtedly alive. You, however, jumped off a building. Remember? Made me _watch_. Now, I have absolutely no clue how you could possibly be lying here in front of me, but here you are. And you will be telling me how as soon as possible. So please, for the love of God, explain yourself Sherlock Holmes.”

But Sherlock did not say a word, simply staring up at John with an expression that was alarmingly childlike, vulnerable and with wide, sad eyes.

“God, Sherlock, what the hell happened to you?”

* * *

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

But you were wrong, John. You were wrong. I wasn’t clever enough to save you.


End file.
